‘Then I needn’t trouble you any longer,’ said Strike, and having thanked Osgood again for his time, he rang off and began reverse-searching the images Oz had posted to Instagram.
As Strike had suspected, all had been stolen from other accounts, with portions of Oz’s curly hair photoshopped in. Strike suspected the picture of the scales, showing a weight Strike would have had to lose at least a couple more limbs to achieve, was meant to explain the discrepancy in size between the real chubby-faced music producer on LinkedIn and his Instagram impersonator.
Strike took out a fresh notecard of the type he used to pin on the noticeboard and headed it: Oz
Impersonates Calvin Osgood, music producer, online
Set up fake Instagram account in January last year
Might have his own curly hair or wears curly wig when pretending to be Osgood.
Someone at Ramsay Silver emailed Osgood/Oz offering help for unspecified problem
Was emailed about a van for sale
Was emailed in bad English about prank played on girl
Strike pinned this card beneath the various press clippings and notes relating to their four possible William Wrights, returned to his desk, and spent the rest of the morning dealing with paperwork unconnected to the silver vault case.
He was still there, consuming a late lunch, when Midge arrived to file her most recent notes. Hearing her ask Pat, ‘Are we getting fish?’ and Pat’s snapped answer, ‘No, turkeys, what’s it look like?’ Strike called Midge through to the inner office and asked whether she thought Plug had spotted her lately.
‘No,’ she said with an unexpected degree of aggression. ‘Why? What’s Kim been fookin’ saying now?’
‘She hasn’t been saying anything,’ said Strike. He remembered Robin telling him Midge’s romance might be on the rocks, but he didn’t much appreciate her tone. ‘We’ve had an anonymous call to the office and I wondered whether it could’ve been him or one of his mates.’
‘Oh,’ said Midge, looking somewhat abashed. ‘Right. Well, he did something fookin’ weird last night. Left his mum’s at midnight, jumped in his van, and drove to an allotment up the road. He goes into the shed with a torch, stays five minutes, comes out, locks it up again, and drives home. I waited ’til he was safe in the house, then went back to the allotment. Long story short, nearly bust my knee climbing over the fence, and there’s something alive in there.’
‘What, in the shed?’
‘Yeah. It’s animal, not human – unless they’re deaf, I s’pose. I said “knock twice if you can hear me” and nobody did. Whatever it is sounds big, but it wasn’t moving a lot. The windows are blacked out and there’s a massive chain and padlock on the door.’
Strike heard Pat’s gruff ‘afternoon’ in the outer office and knew Robin must have arrived. He followed Midge into the outer office, where Robin was hanging up her coat and Pat was making more coffee.
‘Oh, are we getting—?’ began Robin, looking at the fish tank, but Strike interrupted,
‘How was Mrs Two-Times?’
‘Dull,’ said Robin. ‘All she seems to do is shop and meet her girlfriends for lunch. I just handed over to Dev in Harvey Nichols.’
Strike, Robin noticed, was wearing a blue shirt she’d never seen before.
‘We’ve had a threatening phone call,’ he informed her. Pat played Robin the second of the two messages the agency had received overnight.
‘“Leave it and you won’t get hurt?”’ Robin repeated. She’d once unwrapped a severed leg in this very office, so a non-specific whisper seemed fairly tame in comparison, but all the same, she didn’t fancy further unwanted packages. ‘What’s “it”?’
‘Christ knows.’
The two partners retired to the inner office.
‘Don’t mention fish,’ Strike told her, as he closed the office door. ‘The tank was supposed to be a birthday present for her great-granddaughter, but a rival grandmother beat Pat to it.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Robin. ‘Well, they’ll brighten the place up.’
‘Yeah, be a real morale-raiser, fish carking it and Pat blaming me,’ said Strike.
Robin laughed, then, noticing a few additions to the noticeboard since she’d last examined it, moved closer to look at them.
On the lower part of the board was Strike’s new note about ‘Oz’, and beside it a card headed ‘Wright’ bearing a summary of the notes Strike had made about the man who’d lived for a month in St George’s Avenue, and worked at Ramsay Silver for a fortnight.
5’6/7 – blood group A+ – left-handed – mid-twenties–early thirties – fake tan, worked out, weights – dope smoker – has handled gun professionally/recreationally? – faking accent? Not from Doncaster? – knows about ‘Rita Linda’. This will be/has been in papers? – girlfriend coming to live with him? – associates/enemies may include man with dark curly hair and light-brown skinned, long black haired girl (possibly South Asian). These had keys to Wright’s house and room.
TBD: Call Jim Todd, Ramsay Silver cleaner 07335 854042
Call Pamela Bullen-Driscoll, Ramsay Silver manager
07194 241267
At the very bottom of the board was a new photograph, showing a man with dark hair, a pronounced widow’s peak and a thick moustache. Beside this Strike had written:
TBC: DCI Malcolm Truman, allegedly member of Winston Churchill Lodge
Next meeting Freemasons’ Hall Dec 23rd 18.30
Evidently, Robin thought, with a slight sinking feeling, Strike had found the online allegation that Malcolm Truman was a Freemason. Her gaze moved back up the board to the new note about ‘Oz’.
‘So that Osgood man’s a victim of identity theft?’ she said.
‘So he claims,’ said Strike. ‘He’s none too chuffed he’s been dragged into a murder investigation.’
‘Hardly surprising.’
‘He claims he was in Manchester when Wright was killed. I’ll check that out, but I suspect it’s true and the police concluded he was irrelevant. ’Course, the police weren’t aware a man with curly hair entered Wright’s room the morning after Wright was murdered.’
‘You think that might have been this “Oz” person?’
‘Got to be a possibility,’ said Strike, ‘but I’m keeping an open mind.’
‘Have you told Wardle about the curly-haired man and the South Asian girl?’
‘I have, yeah, and he’s passed the information to the team handling the case. I’ve also contacted the cleaner and the shop manager, Jim Todd and Pamela Bullen-Driscoll. Interesting responses.’
‘Really?’ said Robin, sitting down as Pat entered the room, holding two mugs of coffee, which she set down beside each partner.
‘Cheers, Pat,’ said Strike.
‘Biscuit?’ she asked.
‘No, thanks. Trying to be good.’
‘I won’t, either,’ said Robin. ‘Christmas coming.’
‘A biscuit won’t hurt you,’ said Pat.
‘You can close the door behind you, Pat,’ said Strike.
The office manager left, now smirking.
‘Go on, about Pamela and Todd,’ said Robin.
‘Todd’s happy to meet, but can’t till the nineteenth. Pamela Bullen-Driscoll all but told me to fuck off.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Very genteel,’ said Strike, ‘and very cold. “Ay’ve said all Ay’ve got to say to the police, Mister Strike.”’
‘Oh,’ said Robin. ‘I got your email about Jade Semple, by the way.’
‘Yeah, another one who’s not keen on talking to me. I’ve sent her screenshots of my bona fides and no response whatsoever. Maybe she’s not as keen on finding her husband as she claimed to the press. There was a fairly shirty man with her when we spoke.